


Drunk

by irradiations



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irradiations/pseuds/irradiations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission goes bad and Clint drowns his sorrows. Thankfully his partner is very patient and forgiving, even when he gets hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 10_hurt_comfort on LiveJournal, and I used the prompt 'Drunk'

"Another." The glass is slammed onto the bar, the ice inside jumping with a clinking noise unmistakable to any listener. The barman considers the blonde customer, as if deciding if he's already had too much, but pours him a whiskey anyway - these military types always pay up, and they keep trouble down. Statistically speaking, you know.

"Tough day?" he asks amiably, and Clint's glare shot his way is enough to ward the man off. Sometimes, you just left patrons to their drink. If they wanted to talk, they'd talk. A few liked spilling their sorrows, and he was more than happy to listen.

Clint stares into his glass, the amber liquid swirling around the glasses as he twirls it against the bench. He can hear it, any time he stops talking, any time there's silence around him, he can hear them, hear the screaming, the terror. The whole team, decimated in eight minutes. And him, left behind, sat in some run down bar in Cleveland, drinking away the throbbing pain in his head, his hand, his heart. 

He was done. Done with missions, done with everyone dying, done with not knowing if he was going back. He hated that sad look on Bruce's face whenever he came back hurt, the way he'd frown and sigh, then oh so gently tend every wound, reverently, get him cleaned up and changed and in bed. How understanding his partner had to be just to fucking live with him.

Clint asks for another drink, with fresh ice. He's downed that last one, it's time for a top up. He hasn't even called in yet. Not since the evac. Now he's just waiting for Coulson to appear and drag him back to the 'carrier, probably with a warning to clean himself up because Fury wants to see him.

Maybe he'll sack him. The last straw. Gone too far this time, Barton. Too much of a risk now, Clint, you understand, right?

Holy shit how did I end up down here? Clint struggles to his feet from where he's slipped off his bar stool. His head hurts, and now his stomach is lurching wildly. The world is moving independently of his head moving. His whiskey has been replaced by some kindly barkeeper for a glass of water, and he sips it without complaint, though he wishes it was more booze. It settles his stomach a little, and he considers asking for more alcohol, but changes his mind. He gets the feeling the request would be denied anyway. The water's cold, soothing the bruising already brewing in his mouth, washing away the sickness in the back of his throat. It helps, but he's not going to admit that.

He doesn't look up when the door opens. Moving his head makes the world spin uncomfortably fast, and with the world spinning around like that, god knew what the contents of his very liquid-filled stomach would be doing. So he stares into his water as though seeking the answers to every puzzle in the universe. He starts with 'Why am I still alive when they're gone?' and then moves onto further existential questions such as the meaning of life.

"Were you going to call, or were you just hoping I'd forget you?" Clint flinches at the familiar voice, colder in tone than usual, but still familiar to him. Bruce pulls a seat up beside Clint, shaking his head at the barman's offer of a drink, his eyes fixed on the injured man sat beside him and ignorant to the stares they're getting.

Let them look.

"Was gonna call. Then I came here." Clint hates how sullen he sounds, but damn it, he feels sullen. Really goddamn sullen, and angry, and sad, and sick. He sips his water and stares at the glass, through it, beyond it. He doesn't even know anymore.

Bruce sighs, but he doesn't sound angry. He's never angry, not with Clint; Bruce has a calm, serene way about him when he's around Clint, so relaxed, kind. Right then, Clint hates it. He'd rather Bruce yelled and screamed and shouted, then he could fucking argue with him and he'd feel like he was taking some form of action. Something. Anything.

"Let's go. I rented a motel room, you can't go back to the 'carrier like this," Bruce says quietly, and Clint slides the glass so hard off the bar it falls to the floor and shatters. Bruce gasps audibly, and Clint feels ever more sick and guilty, but there's a buzz there, a release of that pent up anger and frustration.

"I don't want to go anywhere with you, or anyone. I want to sit here and fucking drink until I can't remember anything." Clint's shouting now, but he's looking up, directly into those goddamn doe eyes which are full of hurt and sadness. "Fuck you."

They look at each other then, staring, startling blue on dark brown. Bruce looks so damn calm. Relaxed. Like his partner hasn't just sworn at him. He blinks slowly, trying to keep Clint in his gaze as long as possible, getting his thoughts together.

Clint wishes he was dead. He shouldn't have said that, wouldn't have if… The alcohol… The mission…

"No." The word is whispered, and nearly lost in the sound of the bar, between the music and the sounds of mumbled conversation. Clint stares at Bruce, trying to fathom out what that word could possibly mean in the context of their conversation. "Clint… Come with me," he adds, and Clint understands. 

Because despite being beaten to within an inch of his life, being told he was worthless, that'd he'd never amount to anything, Bruce could forgive Clint anything.

Clint's eyes brim up, and Bruce slips a hand around his boy's shoulders, gently helping him down off the stool and holding him close to his side to guide him out of the bar, into a cab. Bruce doesn't let go of his hand, and Clint tries his best not to vomit the whole way. He didn't want to incur a charge.

The motel is blissfully close by, and Bruce has hired a nice room, big beds, cable TV. Clint's first sight of it was the carpet, followed swiftly by the toilet, the gracious recipient of twenty eight dollars worth of whiskey he'd got away with not paying for. Bruce closed the door then followed, stroking Clint's back gently through his tac vest.

Once Clint was done, Bruce sat him propped against the bath and started working his clothes off. They all wound up in the bath, ready to pack up and take back to the Helicarrier, today, tomorrow, whenever it was. He was losing track of time. Bruce put a cold flannel against the back of Clint's neck, soothing his building headache, and fetched him a shirt to wear and clean boxers, helping him change and settle again on the tiled floor.

Bruce promised to fetch some ice cubes for Clint to suck and left him briefly. Clint clutched at his porcelain friend and retched up some blood from his mouth injuries and the last bile he had left, then went still, tipping his head back against the cool tile and trying to relax.

Bruce comes back to him, quietly settling down beside Clint and slipping a small ice cube in his mouth. Clint sucks it obediently, enjoying the feeling of the cool liquid slowly trickling down his irritated throat, and Bruce gently cleans the wounds one Clint's face with a wipe. They're not bad, just bloody, as all facial wounds are, but he double checks each one carefully as he works.

Another ice cube, and Bruce sets in to checking the contusions on Clint's hands. All his knuckles are scuffed and cut open, bleeding right down his wrist, dry and brown now where the blood had congealed. Bruce cleans each hand, slowly, talking quietly to Clint about what he's doing with each touch, and binds them up with fresh, soft bandages, gauze to pad them, little neat fasteners to hold them in place. 

By then, Clint's feeling better. He catches Bruce's hand and holds it, smiling wanly at him, a smile that Bruce returns whole-heartedly. "It's time you went to bed, sleep the worst of this off," he says kindly, clearing away all the medical packaging into the bin then slipping his hands under Clint's arms and easing him standing.

Clint holds on to Bruce tight, as though scared he'll wander off. It feels like it takes a lifetime to reach the closest bed, but Clint falls into it and bundles himself up tight. Bruce adds the comforter from the other bed to the bundle, wrapping Clint up in it, then he sits beside him on the bed, stroking through Clint's hair like his mom used to do when he was sick. "I'm sorry," Clint whispers, holding on to Bruce's hand where one rests in the bedding.

"I know," Bruce replies, keeping up the stroking as it soothes Clint into a drowsy state. "I forgive you."


End file.
